


Remnants of a Cataclysm

by lacrimalis



Category: Styx: Master of Shadows
Genre: Amnesia, Exposition, Gen, Goblins, Post-Canon, Swearing, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 17:30:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18197198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacrimalis/pseuds/lacrimalis
Summary: The World Tree's death brings with it the death of all living memory in pure creatures of amber.Styx is reborn in the lake bed still remembering his name. But his name isn't the only thing that survived The World Tree's destruction.(Major End Spoilers for Master of Shadows)





	Remnants of a Cataclysm

He's born in a dry lake bed with a hundred thousand siblings.

In the lake bed is an enormous dead tree, and a wreckage that looks like a city destroyed by some kind of earthquake. Or maybe the tree fell _on_ the city, but that doesn't really make sense, right? Trees don't fall out of the sky.

He catches sight of one of his siblings as it scratches and snuffles at the edge of a strange golden pool, and he approaches it. "Hey," he says. His voice comes out in a gravely rumble which sounds strangely familiar, though it's the first time he's spoken. He licks his lips, dry from the clouds of dust that drift through the ruins in the lake bed. “Do you know where we are?”

“Styx?” his sibling replies in a nasally voice, tilting its head at him and twitching its leathery green ears, gold fluid dripping from its slack mouth.

The word rings a bell, and something in his head clicks into place. “Styx… Yeah, that's my name. How'd you know? Do you know me?” He asks, pointing at himself.

His sibling points at itself too, looking like an exceptionally stupid mirror. “Styx!”

Styx scowls. “No, _I'm_ Styx,” he says, gesturing at himself with both hands for emphasis. Then he points at his sibling. “Who're _you_?”

“Styx!” it says, pointing at Styx.

Styx slaps its hand out of his face, and it hisses, stalking away on all fours like an angry cat.

Then the chatter which he'd ignored as meaningless and distant resolves in his head, and Styx realizes they're all saying the same thing: _Styx._ “Can any of you actually talk?” he demands, walking up to a group surrounding one of those strange golden pools.

A litany of “Styx! Styx?” meets his inquiry. When they speak, he gets the impression of parrots, mimicking something they've heard but which their minds are too small and simple to understand. He slumps in defeat. Is he seriously the only one with a working brain in this pathetic bunch? If he is, there's no _way_ he's playing big brother for a hundred thousand idiots. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “What the fuck is going on here...?”

When he drops his hand away, his eyes fall on the pool they're all lapping from like a bunch of thirsty dogs. He's kind of thirsty himself, come to think of it.

“Move it,” he says, shoving one of them out of his way. It hisses and makes a swipe at him, scratching his right shoulder. The pain makes him snarl and bare his teeth. “I said _fuck off_!” he shouts, and the watering hole clears out faster than one of those idiots can say 'Styx’ again. He touches his stinging shoulder, where his green skin is scored by four pink lines. The lines slowly redden and begin to dribble with blood. “Ancestors,” he swears, which is strange, because he's pretty sure he has no ancestors to speak of. They're certainly not _here,_ making things easy for them with a simple explanation – not that anyone but Styx would understand, if an explanation for their existence were forthcoming.

Shaking his head, Styx approaches the golden pool and peers into it. He sees his reflection shimmering on the surface, the same ugly mug he shares with his stupid siblings staring back at him. The only difference is the intelligence in his bright, glaring eyes.

Styx tries to smile, but his jagged teeth just make it look threatening. He grimaces. Then he sticks his tongue out. It's dark, though he can't tell the color with the gold of the pool – dark green, or gray, maybe. He occupies himself making faces at his reflection and inspecting his unfamiliar features. A few of his siblings wander up, but all he has to do is snarl and growl for them to scamper off.

When he's bored with that, Styx recalls his thirst and turns his attention to the contents of the pool. Whorls of honey-gold and white dance and gambol in its smoky depths, and the whole thing seems to glow with a strange inner light. “There's no way this is potable,” he grumbles, but he cups it in his palms anyway. It's more viscous than water, and it clings to his hands and fingers. “Bottoms up,” he says, and drinks it.

It does more than quench his thirst – his entire body lights up with incandescent sensation. Energy courses through him, though he has no idea what to do with it. He feels invigorated. 

“What _is_ this stuff?” he marvels, cupping his hands and drinking again. Ambrosial nectar of the gods, maybe – though Styx couldn't have named a single god if asked, nor could he explain how he knows a word like _ambrosial._

As he drinks, Styx begins to hear the mutters of his siblings again – no doubt crawling back to see if he's willing to share. “I said get lost, _rakash_ ,” he snaps, the word supplying itself by instinct from his reservoir of language. This word he doesn't understand though, which is unusual, at least in his brief experience with understanding the words that come out of his mouth.

Almost as unusual as the fact that when he looks up, his siblings are far away – certainly not within earshot.

Then where are those voices coming from?

Styx assesses his surroundings with narrow eyes, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound – but it's distant and quiet now, like it's just out of reach. “Must've imagined it,” he mutters, and he drinks another two handfuls – before the voices return with enough strength to bowl him over.

_Destroyer!_

_Elf bane!_

_Wretched creature!_

Which is all he makes out before the sheer multitude and volume of the voices drowns out the individual words. He clutches his splitting head and writhes in the dirt. “Shut up! Shut _up,_ damn you! Get out of my fucking head!”

The onslaught continues, driving like a pike into his brain its ceaseless accusations and abuse. Beyond reason, Styx lends his own voice to the clamor, as if by screaming over them they’ll be cowed into silence – but this just seems to make the voices rally to scream even louder than Styx.

Styx gives up, gritting his teeth and pressing his face into the hard-packed dirt, waiting for it to end.

 _BE SILENT,_ one voice rings out above all the rest. And they actually _stop._ Styx can still feel them in his head, like a thousand pairs of eyes on his mind – but they're silent.

 _Search his mind,_ the same authoritative voice beseeches them. _Can't you see he knows not of what you speak?_

The voices start up again, and Styx flinches. Not just because he's preparing for them to start shouting again, but because it feels _wrong._ Now that his faculties have returned enough to acknowledge that there are _voices inside his head,_ Styx shivers with revulsion. It's the most unnatural and discomfiting type of intrusion he can imagine.

But they don't shout – they only whisper among themselves. He would have to focus to make out what they're saying, but he's honestly doing all he can to tune them out after that violent introduction.

 _Do not torment this poor creature,_ the voice continues. _The one with whom our grudge lies has perished._

The voices grow fainter, more distant, somehow. But he can still _feel_ them there, on the edge of his awareness. As if reading his mind – and given the circumstances, that's pretty likely – the voice that seems to be in charge tells them, _Leave us._ Finally, blessedly, the rest of them slip away back to wherever they came from.

Leaving just the one.

“Thanks,” Styx says, dragging himself to his feet and rubbing his temples. It seems the voices left him a headache as a parting gift. _Real_ considerate of them. “What the hell was _their_ problem?”

Styx receives no answer, and he wonders if his disembodied benefactor went the way of the rest of the voices.

“Uh, hey, you still there?” Styx says, then sighs. “Born yesterday and I'm already going crazy. Not a good sign.”

 _I apologize for their behavior,_ the voice says, and Styx just about jumps out of his skin. _They have only recently re-joined the amber, and they are prone to emotional outbursts._

“Amber,” Styx says once he's recovered, looking back at the pool and down at the golden smears on his hands. “What is this stuff? Ghost juice?”

_In a manner of speaking, yes. It is the mana of the World Tree from which all elves are born, and to which we all return at the end of our lives._

“So you're an elf,” Styx says. He sits down, because he might as well, and wipes the rest of the amber on his hands into the dirt. Good riddance.

 _I was,_ says the voice. _Now I am essentially, as you put it, a ghost. A remnant of my mind exists in the amber, but my body is no more._

“Huh,” Styx says. So he's talking to a ghost. Still kind of concerning, if not as concerning as hearing voices for no reason at all. At least this is better conversation than he'll get from the _rakash_ wandering around. “You got a name, ghost?”

 _Those who return to the amber do not have names,_ the voice says. Styx rolls his eyes, and he's about to tell him to stop being pedantic and tell him what his name _used_ to be when he goes on, _But you may refer to me as Galan, if you wish._

“Galan,” Styx says. Unlike _Styx_ or _amber_ or _rakash,_ the name the ghost gives doesn't inspire any feeling of recognition. “Why'd you help me?”

 _As I said, many of those who assaulted your mind have only recently re-joined the amber. They mistook you for another, and in their emotional state they targeted your vulnerable mind._ Styx scowls, because that may be why the other voices assaulted him, but it doesn't explain why Galan chose to step in. Sensing Styx's dissatisfaction, Galan adds, _It would not have been just to allow them to bring you harm._

“I guess,” Styx says dubiously. Justice hasn't really factored into his decision making thus far. Not that he doesn't appreciate the help.

 _I am glad to be of assistance,_ Galan assures him.

Taken aback, Styx asks, “Did you just read my thoughts?”

 _One might argue that, in my current state, your thoughts and mine are one and the same,_ Galan quips, and Styx _almost_ doesn't catch the dry humor, amid all the elf's fancily-worded prevaricating. _But I apologize nevertheless. Your predecessor also disliked intrusions into his thoughts. I am willing to respect any similar desires you may have, but sharing your mind is a necessary difficulty we must endure if I am to answer your questions._

Styx _had_ worried that Galan planned to overstay his welcome, so it comes as a relief to know he'll get lost as soon as Styx asks him to. “Why even answer my questions?”

 _Your situation is… unfortunate,_ Galan says. _The uncharitable actions of my kin notwithstanding, you are alone in the world. The road before you is a difficult and perilous one. I would like to aid you in any way I can._

"Still not hearing the 'why'," Styx grumbles. “Lemme guess. It wouldn't be 'just’ for you to leave me hanging?”

 _What I believe to be just does not factor into this decision,_ Galan says. _In truth, I have a personal investment in your well-being._

“That being...?” Styx prompts, picking at his black finger nails as he waits for Galan to spit it out, so to speak. Ghosts obviously don't have spit, Styx reasons, but he does his best to broadcast his impatience so Galan can pick up on it.

 _I care for you,_ Galan says simply. Styx doesn't have any idea how to respond to that, so he doesn't. _And though I know your predecessor acted of his own volition, I cannot help feeling responsible for your current predicament._

“My… predecessor,” Styx says slowly. “You mentioned him before. Is that who your friends mistook me for?”

_He called himself Styx, as you do. As you have inherited not only his name, but his mind, the remnants of my kin honed in on you as an object upon which to vent their anguish._

That sounds about as reasonable as anything else he's heard so far. It explains why he knows his name is 'Styx’ – though it suggests some troubling implications that it's _also_ the only word his siblings seem to be capable of saying. “If I inherited his mind, why can't I remember anything?” Styx asks, though that's... not _exactly_ right. He remembers his name, and he knows what an elf is though he's never seen one. He knows how to speak, and he knows the creatures that look like him but _aren't_ him are called _rakash._ Styx knows he could only know these things if some part of him remembers them – but he doesn't remember _learning_ any of it.

 _You are a creature of amber, as elves are,_ Galan explains. _In the amber, we share one mind. The World Tree was the source of all amber, and it was its magic which permitted this union._

Styx's gaze is drawn to the dead tree, whose improbable enormity dominates the lake bed.

 _Now that it has fallen,_ Galan continues, confirming Styx's suspicion, _the chain of memories it linked together is now shattered. Those elves who wandered far from its boughs are less likely to be affected, but those who consumed amber daily will have lost their memories – as you have._

“Great,” Styx says. “So if I keep drinking amber, I'll lose my memories once it's all gone?"

 _The World Tree is no more. Thus, it no longer functions as a depository of our shared experiences. Your memories are your own,_ Galan clarifies, just when Styx begins to grow agitated with his roundabout way of answering questions.

“You're awfully chatty,” Styx mutters, but given the absence of alternative conversational partners, he can't really bring himself to make it a complaint.

 _In truth, I did not expect any part of me would survive the World Tree's demise,_ Galan admits. _To reach the other side of that cataclysm, even as a remnant in the amber, and to know that I may yet be of assistance to you… It is a blessing I did not expect to enjoy before my soul finally moved on._

Styx doesn't know what to do with all this good will. Maybe past-him would have known, but that doesn't really help him now. "Uh, thanks, I guess," he says lamely, and decides that no, he's probably never known how to deal with this kind of thing. Thanking Galan doesn't feel half as natural as cracking wise at him, or shoving and snarling at his siblings. Seeking refuge in the familiar, Styx puts up a wall. “But don't think that means I'm gonna let you live inside my head forever.”

 _Not at all,_ Galan assures him. _The restless souls in the amber will no longer trouble you, and if that is all you require of me, then I will take my leave with them. You need only ask, and I will depart from your mind._

Styx weighs his options. He surveys the wreckage in the lake bed, and his gaze lands with disdain on the scavenging and animal-like squabbling of his siblings. “What if I want to talk to you again?”

Galan is silent for a moment, during which Styx notices something in his mind that can't possibly be coming from him. It's like he can _tell_ that Galan is… glad, at the thought that Styx might want him to stick around.

_As I was closely attuned to the amber in life, I expect some remnant of my mind will remain until the last of it has gone from the world. If you drink the amber and reach out to me, I should be able to return to your mind._

Styx makes a thoughtful sound. “Good to know.”

 _If that is what you wish,_ Galan continues, _I suggest you scavenge for something to store it in, before your siblings drink the last of the amber which is readily available._

“Good idea,” Styx says, looking down at his state of undress and wondering how he's going to carry a bunch of bottles of amber. “Don't call me, I'll call you.”

 _I look forward to it,_ Galan says. And with that Styx feels the foreign presence leave his mind.

It's a relief to be alone with his thoughts again. He might hold off on the amber for a while, just to appreciate what it feels like not to have someone else in his head.

 _Kinda lonely, though,_ his traitorous thoughts chime in. But as he looks out over the lake bed full of ruins crawling with  _rakash,_ he can't bring himself to banish the thought.

"Hey, elf," Styx says, just to see if he's still listening. Then, "Galan," and immediately Styx registers the elf's presence in his head.

 _How might I be if assistance?_ comes the tranquil voice. Styx half-expected a dig at how quickly he called Galan back, since he has it on good authority that the elf does, in fact, have a sense of humor. The faint, fluttering feeling of Galan's joy makes Styx think he's probably too happy about being invited back to poke fun.

Styx climbs into the second story window of a stone building that's somehow laying on its side. "Do you know what _rakash_ means?" he asks, and he listens as Galan dutifully explains, his voice a soothing backdrop of mostly chatter and partially information, while Styx roots around in the ruins in search of something to carry amber with.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) It's a capital offense that the elven ambassador doesn't even have a name. I'm Offended! In Capital Letters!
> 
> 2) He died so Styx could be reborn in the amber pod )': A sweet elf man )': I wanted him and Styx to bang )':
> 
> 3) I'm going to single-handedly populate the Styx fandom tags and none of you are going to stop me.


End file.
